


How to Lose Friends and Influence People

by Lise



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Curufin doesn't know how to parent, Dysfunctional Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Like father like son
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lise/pseuds/Lise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curufin doesn't know what to do with his son half the time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Lose Friends and Influence People

**Author's Note:**

> Written for sargent_snarky as a Christmas gift a year or so ago, and full of incidental meta on Curufin and his relationship with his son.

The midwife deposited the baby into his arms and for a moment he was frozen in something uncomfortably near to terror. She adjusted his hands almost immediately, and then stepped back, giving him respectful distance. 

He was tempted just to hand the baby back. 

As that was somewhat less than auspicious, let alone not the correct thing to do, he looked down instead, folding back the swaddling blankets to examine his firstborn son with critical eyes. He seemed very small, but other than that he could find no flaw, and breathed out with a sigh of relief. 

The first grandson of Curufinwë Fëanaro now breathed, and Fëanor’s fourth-born son smiled, very slightly, then paused, fading back into a concerned frown. “He is quiet,” he said, glancing up. “Is that…to be expected?” 

“His breathing is strong, prince,” she said, “Perhaps he will just be a quiet child.” 

Someone snorted. “Not like you, then.” 

Curufin sighed, refolding the cloth neatly after once more assuring himself of his son’s perfection. “You may go,” he said, “Tend to my wife,” before turning to face his brothers. 

“Is our sister well?” asked Maedhros, looking concerned, and Curufin nodded, briefly. 

“Yes, she is,” he said, and before he could speak further, Celegorm interrupted with a nod at his son in his arms. 

“Well? Are you just going to look at him all night or are you going to say something?” 

“He wouldn’t hear anything,” Curufin said, a bit sardonically, though he glanced down almost self-consciously. “He’s asleep. Where is Ata?” 

Caranthir snorted. “Forging. Again. One might think he could be present for his grandson’s birth-”

“Be silent, Moryo.” Maedhros leaned over easily, peering at his son’s face, half hidden in the swaddling cloths and scrunched up as in deep thought. It made something deep in Curufin’s chest tighten, squeeze once, and then release. The feeling perturbed him. “He looks like you, Kurvo,” his eldest brother commented. 

Curufin looked down at the scrunchy, red, face and raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. “Does he?” 

“Cuter than you are,” was Caranthir’s blunt assessment, which Curufin ignored. Maglor spoke up from where he had drifted in, probably from fiddling with his instruments. 

“Have you given him his ataressë yet?” he asked, softly, and the others subsided, even Caranthir, looking at him and his son. Curufin looked down again, shifted a hand to rest against his brow where there was just the barest feathering of dark hair. His confidence returned, the anxiety fading in the face of determination.

“Telperinquar,” he said. “I name my son Telperinquar Curufinwë, and like his grandfather, his hands will make great things.”

**

He returned from working with his father on the design of an intricate piece of jewelry, his mind and body tired. He stepped in the door of his house and looked first to find his only son, sitting on the floor and playing with a rattle that Maglor had given him.

“He’s not to be a bard or singer,” Curufin had informed Maglor, who had just looked at him and asked, “How do you know?” 

“He’s my son, not yours,” Curufin had answered, but then the child had proved damnably fond of it. It was a source of faint exasperation. 

His wife turned from the fire, where he could smell something cooking, and smiled. He crossed the room and kissed her, because it was the right thing to do, and indicated Telperinquar and his rattle. “Can’t you take that thing from him?” 

“He likes it very much,” she said. “I wouldn’t have the heart.” 

Curufin snorted, but let it pass, instead turning to go back to their bedroom and change his clothing. His wife’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Telpe said his first word today.”

“I beg your pardon?” He turned, slowly, and looked at his quite silent son, then to his wife. Umessiel looked as though she wanted to smile. 

“His first word,” she repeated. “He called for you, while you were gone.” 

Curufin counted back the months. Had it truly been so long? Was his son that old already, to be speaking…but yes, it had been, and somehow he had lost track of the time, had forgotten that his son was old enough – and very nearly late. “Called for me?” he said, feeling a little flow of warmth. His wife smiled more. 

“Yes. ‘Ata,’ he said. Four times! I counted.” 

And he had missed it. Curufin felt a pang that he didn’t understand, and said, “I want to hear it.” 

“Well, you’ll have to ask him,” she said, and Curufin glanced at his rattling son and crossed over to stand above him. 

“Telperinquar,” he said. “I heard you spoke today. Can you say what you said, for me?” 

Silence. More rattling. Curufin felt a twinge of irritation, this time, and repeated himself, a bit more loudly. “Telperinquar, my son. You said something to your mother. I would like you to repeat it.” 

The rattling stopped. Then, “No,” said Telperinquar, cheerfully, brightly, _insolently_. This time the irritation was more than just a twinge. 

“Another word!” His wife exclaimed, and he could hear her nervousness and just raised a hand to silence her. 

“Telpe. Am I to hear you right, that you are _refusing_ me? Your _father?_ ”

His son lifted the rattle and banged it against the floor, twice, rapidly, and said nothing. Curufin’s irritation flared into outright anger. “Answer me!” He cried. “What word did you say to your mother today?” 

“No,” said Telperinquar, and lifted the rattle again. Curufin’s hand whipped out and dashed it from his son’s hand, and it broke in two on the floor, spilling out beans in every direction. 

“Stop that damned noise!” He cried. “I can’t _stand_ it!” Telpe flinched back and stared wide eyed at the broken rattle, not seeming to understand.

“Kurvo,” said Umessiel, and she sounded near to tears. He rounded on her. Why could no one listen? Why wouldn’t his son obey, why wouldn’t he just say one word to name his own _father?_

“Be silent,” he hissed, “Don’t speak to me. It’s from you this insolence comes.”

He stalked to the bedroom before she could reply, and closed the door with a resounding thud. He paced back and forth, tearing off his tunic, feeling too hot and too enclosed. By the time he was dressed again, his anger had eased and he began to feel the pricklings of shame. 

Telperinquar was nothing more than a boy. It wasn’t his fault. It was just that he had been so pleased to hear that his first word had been to his father, and – 

And his father hadn’t been there for it. 

There was a soft knock on the door, and he lifted his head. “Come in,” he said, hearing the heaviness in his own voice. It swung open and Umessiel stood there, holding Telperinquar on her hip. His son’s shoulders huddled up by his ears and his eyes were downcast. 

“Telpe wanted to tell you something,” his wife said, quietly, and looked down. “Go on.” 

Telperinquar reached out with one arm and said, very tentatively, “Ata?” 

Curufin very nearly winced. He stood up and held out his arms, took his son gently from his wife. “I'm sorry,” he said, hoping that the boy understood enough to know what he meant, if not what he was saying. “I should not have…been angry with you.” 

His son snuggled up to his chest and closed his eyes. 

The rattle was beyond repair, Curufin knew, but he would make something else. In the forge, tomorrow. He would make sure to bring something back for his son, something _better_ than a rattle. 

Tomorrow.

**

“Be careful,” Curufin said.

“You said that already.” Even sitting on the bench, his son’s legs did not quite reach the floor, and swung back and forth in an eager, anxious motion. 

“I'm saying it again. Perhaps it’s too soon. Perhaps you shouldn’t be here at all.” He glanced at his son, but Telperinquar looked dismayed. 

“No!” He shook his head vehemently. “I’ll just sit right here and watch. I won’t be any trouble, I promise.” 

Curufin sighed, but the boy did need to learn if he was going to be a smith, and watching was the best way to start. In only a few years he would have the boy apprenticed to himself, or even better, to Fëanor, if he could manage it, and get him started, but for now – this would have to do. 

“Then sit there,” he said. “And don’t move, touch nothing, and do not distract me.” 

“Yes, Ata,” said Telpe, almost surprisingly obediently, and sat perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the hunk of metal that Curufin was going to work on today. 

Curufin reached for the pliers, then set them down, bent the thin sheet experimentally with his hands, and took a small hammer, beginning to tap out the small imperfections a little at a time. Once he had a clean sheet, he took the tongs and held it in the fire, watching the metal heat rapidly. 

“You can’t keep this in too long,” he said, “Or it will melt.” 

“What are you making?” Telpe asked, and Curufin felt himself smile. This was one of few things that gave him pleasure, and to hear his son taking an interest – it pleased him. 

“I don’t know yet. I will see what the metal says to me, when it’s ready.” He lifted the sheet out of the fire, examined it. “My ata – your grandfather – can bring things out of a sheet like this that you wouldn’t believe. He is a true master. I am skilled, but I know I can never match him.” 

Telpe sucked in a breath as Curufin set the sheet down again and folded it in half, hammering the two sides together. Curufin didn’t look at him, but he could feel his son’s keen eyes on his back, following his every movement. 

“You don’t want to quench too often,” he said, putting the folded metal back into the fire to heat again. “It dulls metal, especially delicate types like this one.” He folded the sheet again and then examined it. He could feel jewelry in this. A pendant, perhaps? No, that wasn’t quite right. He turned it, thinking. 

“A ring?” said Telpe, abruptly, and then Curufin saw it too. 

“Yes,” he said, delighted. “Yes, that’s _exactly_ it.” He glanced at his son a moment, and then raised one hand thoughtfully and beckoned. “Come here.” 

His son tensed. “What?” 

“Come here,” he said, again. “Stand where I am and look at the metal, for a moment.” 

Hesitating, his son obeyed, and Curufin tracked his movement, watched his son’s eye move over the sheet. “How does it look?” He asked. 

“It looks – flat. Smooth.” Telpe glanced up at him, almost hopefully, and Curufin let one corner of his mouth curve in a wry smile. 

“Look again.” 

Telpe looked again, and then his eyes widened. “There, right there!” He said, pointing to the blemish where a small piece had popped up as it cooled and the shape changed slightly. “I didn’t see it before-”

“It wasn’t there before. As the metal cools…” He had a sudden thought, and reached for the small hammer he’d been using, and held it out to his son. “Here.” 

His son took it, blinking. “I – what do you want me to do?” 

“Hammer it flat,” Curufin said. “Gently, but not too gently. You don’t want to use more than two strokes or you’ll change the metal around the mark more than you want to. A light touch.” 

Telperinquar hesitated. “I’ll ruin it.” 

“No,” said Curufin, “You will not. I’ll hold it steady. All you have to do is bring it down.”

He watched the careful measurement of the arc that his son made, but he stopped, and looked up. “I can’t,” he said, and Curufin could hear the apology in his voice. He frowned. 

“Let me guide your hand, then,” he said, and placed his own hand over his son’s on the handle of the hammer, lifted it, traced the arc. “Just follow my lead. One, two-” He brought the hammer down, touch light, letting Telpe choose the force and the angle, and let go at the last minute. 

The blemish popped perfectly flat. One strike. 

Curufin smiled. “Very good,” he said, and his son straightened and stood tall.

**

Curufin circled, the practice sword out in front of him. There were bruises rising on his opponent’s bare arms despite his very real, if blunted, blade. “Again,” Curufin said, ruthlessly.

His son lunged forward, movement quick, but the wooden sword flicked his out of the air, parried another slash, and then turned back as Curufin pressed the offensive, driving his son back until with a sharp twist he knocked the blade from his hand and held the point to Telperinquar’s belly. 

“Dead,” he said, simply, flatly, as his son rubbed his stinging wrist. “Again.” 

His son was breathing hard, tired and limping from a blow that he had landed earlier to his thigh to remind him to guard it. His son was good, but not good enough. Adequate, and that was a word that Curufin had never been able to accept. Not for himself. 

Certainly not for his son. 

Telpe doggedly fetched the sword, though, and brought it up again. Curufin moved first, quick slashing movements, his feet quick, then swept neatly in a circle to dodge the clumsy parry and brought the flat of the sword hard against his son’s hamstrings. Telpe yelled, this time, stumbling, and carefully stifled it. Curufin felt his mouth tighten. 

“You’re getting worse, not better. Again.” 

Caranthir, who was leaning patiently on the fence, lifted his head off his arms and called, “That’s enough, Kurvo. You’re going to drive the boy into the ground.” 

“I will stop when he’s managed to defend himself against me for longer than a minute.” Curufin narrowed his eyes. “ _Again_ , Telperinquar.” 

His son drew himself up. His expression was drawn, but if he had managed this in the first hour then the extra time would not be necessary. As it was… Curufin raised his sword, feinted, and moved into another quick flurry of cuts, parrying every attempted strike with ease. 

“That’s idiotic, Kurvo. You’re older than he is, and nastier. He’s not going to beat you.” 

Curufin managed not to bare his teeth, though he wanted to snap. “Be silent, Moryo, if you can say nothing _useful._ ”

“I'm fine,” called Telpe, glancing at his uncle and flashing a smile. Curufin narrowed his eyes and backed up a few steps, circled to the right. 

“Again,” he said, to cut off further conversation. 

It was simple defense. A basic concept that his son couldn’t seem to grasp. He could hear the boy breathing hard as they locked swords, the metal biting into Curufin’s wood, but he just used it to throw Telperinquar off balance and throw him to the ground with one sweep of his legs. His son managed to get the sword out of the way and roll, but he still hit the ground hard and lay there, panting. 

Curufin set the point of his sword to Telpe’s throat and intoned, “Dead. Again. What do you think this is, boy, play?” 

Telpe’s eyes hardened. “I'm no boy.” 

“Then prove it.” Curufin stepped back, letting Telpe haul himself to his own two feet. This was how he had learned. “Again.” 

It took even less time this time for Curufin to score a hit, this time thudding into Telpe’s stomach. The boy doubled over and he moved in to proclaim another kill, but another metal sword was suddenly just under his chin. 

“Dead,” said Moryo, firmly. Curufin fell still. “That’s enough, Kurvo. Telpe’s exhausted.” He held out the other hand without looking. “Come. Get up, go on and get cleaned up. I think my brother and I need to talk.” 

“Stay where you are,” Curufin said, gratingly, teeth gritting. “Moryo. You overstep yourself. He is _my_ son and thus _mine_ to train as I wish.” 

“Within reason. This isn’t training, this isn’t teaching anyone anything.” Moryo narrowed his eyes and sheathed his sword, smoothly. “You heard me, nephew. Get up. You’re going to be aching enough tomorrow without help.” 

Curufin glanced to his son, who looked at him and didn’t accept his brother’s hand, shoving himself up instead. “I'm _fine,_ ” he insisted, and Curufin flicked his gaze back to Caranthir. His brother shrugged. 

“He’s _your_ son, Kurvo. You’d say the same if you were dead for real. Look at him. He needs a break.”

Curufin looked at his son again. He could see the sweat on Telpe’s brow, could see him swaying on his feet. He looked pale, and almost sick. He felt a twinge of guilt that he shoved away. “Go, then,” he said, bitingly. “If you haven’t the _endurance_ to continue, my son, by all means.” 

Telpe turned to stalk away, the set of his shoulders mutinous. Caranthir turned back to him, and stepped back. 

“I’ll be watching again next time,” his brother said, his voice solid and not quite cold. Curufin remembered with the slightest of shivers the near bite of metal underneath his chin. Of all his brothers, Caranthir unnerved him the most. “Just to make sure you don’t push too hard. Because you do. You always do.” 

His brother turned his back and walked away, after Telperinquar, his back radiating anger as well. Curufin watched him go. 

He went home. His son walked in after him – or, limped in. Curufin looked up and surveyed him. He still looked pale other than the mottled bruises on his arms and on the back of his neck. He was moving gingerly, and his head was lowered without a trace of the defiance that Curufin had marked earlier. 

“Telpe,” he said, an apology sour on the back of his tongue, and his son turned, head abruptly coming up, fire back in his eyes. 

“What is it,” his son said, not quite sharply, but it was enough. Curufin felt his eyes harden. 

“We train again tomorrow,” he said, roughly. “Be there on time.”

**

“You are my father,” Telperinquar said, his head held high and his voice strong, almost vibrating with anger. “Not my ruler.”

With that, he wheeled and left, closing the door too quietly behind him. Curufin stared after him, too stunned to be angry at first. When had his son become a man? More, when had his son turned on him? 

When he had first held his son, he had looked at all of him and decreed him perfect. He could not make that same claim now. 

_A father should be the god of his son’s life. A father should be the source of all approval, all purpose, in his son’s world._

Had he ever spoken to his father so? Surely not. He could not have, not to _Fëanor._ He had loved him too well and too deeply, more than all his other brothers, more than his own son- 

Was that wrong? 

_You should be proud of him,_ a small voice whispered, that sounded like Umessiel, or his mother. _A strong man grown, with his gift for the forge and the strength of will and mind to hold his own convictions._

“But they are wrong,” he said aloud, to the empty room. “They are _wrong._ ” And it was his duty, a _father’s_ duty, to correct them, to put his son on the right path, and that he would have to do. No matter what it took. Even if Telpe suffered in the learning, the lesson had to be taught. 

Curufin closed his eyes and pressed his hands over them. It was all so much simpler when his son was a baby he could hold and guide…and love. 

He was not certain what he felt anymore.


End file.
